


Honor Among Thieves

by capmaverick



Series: STRIKE Team Delta Casefiles [1]
Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, No Slash, Origin Story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27058972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capmaverick/pseuds/capmaverick
Summary: Clint Barton was lost. Alone and broken. Walking a path he knew would end in blood – his blood. He never expected the miracle that was the man who called himself Agent Phil Coulson from SHIELD. He never could have been prepared for the offer of a new beginning. Clint Barton never thought he was worth saving – but, then again, Phil Coulson never was one to give up easy.
Series: STRIKE Team Delta Casefiles [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974868
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	1. I'm Down on My Knees

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all and welcome to the beginning of something brand new! What lies before you is the first chapter of thirteen, and the first story of many. Welcome to the Codename: Hawkeye Universe, a long path that will follow Clint Barton on his journey with SHIELD, and what comes after. The series will focus on his relationship (NO SLASH) with his handler, Phil Coulson, and the rest of his small family at SHIELD. If you aren't familiar with his story, no worries, as this is suppose to work as a standalone series.
> 
> I'm very excited for the things I have planned, and I hope you all will take the journey with me! Now, sit back and enjoy.
> 
> Here's Honor Among Thieves.

* * *

_“Where there is no vision, there is no hope.” - George Washington Carver_

* * *

The job was supposed to be an easy one.

Quick in and out, with no proof anyone had been there at all. Then again, in all seventeen years of his life, Clint Barton had never had a habit of making things easy.

Getting inside the house hadn’t been the hard part. The lock was nothing fancy and Clint made quick work of it after quickly disarming the security system from the outside. Once he was inside, locating what he came for wasn’t hard either. Why someone would pay thousands of dollars for him to steal a _file_ , Clint couldn’t figure out. Not like he got paid to ask questions.

His intel, information he had gathered over the course of the last week, told him the file was in a secure safe in the office at the back of the house. Clint knew before he got to the closed door that it would be locked from the inside. He also knew the lock was an electrical one.

It was funny, the amount of trust people put in those things, with how easy they were to disarm.

All it took was one blast from Clint’s handmade EMP to disarm the lock and open the door. Once inside, Clint made a beeline for the safe he knew to be under the desk. He made sure to keep his hood pulled low over his eyes and his mask pulled up under his mouth. He hadn’t seen any security cameras during his week of scouting, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any.

Better safe than sorry.

Clint slid under the desk, coming face to face with the monster of a safe he knew he would have to crack. Not like he was worried. Clint was practically an expert in the area.

Even as his hands made quick work of the safe’s dial, Clint’s ears stayed awake and aware of his surroundings, every fiber of his being willing no one walked into the office right now. He knew the house was empty, except for a sleeping woman and her three children, upstairs. Their father had left unexpectedly on a surprise business trip, giving Clint the perfect window to break into the house.

The satisfactory _click_ of the safe’s lock brought a hint of a smirk to Clint’s face. There really wasn’t anything he loved to hear more, except maybe the sound of an arrow clearing his bowstring.

Now that he had the safe open, Clint identified the file quickly, stuffing it inside his bag. He closed the safe gently, taking a fraction of a second to make sure everything was how he left it. Satisfied, Clint exited the office, making sure the door was all the way closed. Once the effects of the EMP wore off, the lock would engage and click back into place. He would be long gone by the time the owner of the safe realized anything was missing.

Leaving the house was infinitely easier than getting inside, and the second Clint hit the street, he finally let out the breath he had been holding. For once, everything had gone according to plan.

There was a moment of hesitation in Clint’s brain as he realized nothing _ever_ went according to plan for him.

Really, he should have seen it coming.

The hairs on Clint’s arms were standing on end before the butt end of a pistol was snapping into his temple. He hit the pavement hard, face first. Clint’s reflexes were razor sharp, but before he could scramble to his feet, a boot was crashing down into his already abused temple.

His last thought before slipping into unconsciousness was how much his head was going to hurt when he woke up.

* * *

The first thing Clint noticed when he came to was the bag over his head.

It was thick, made of burlap probably, and was tied around his neck with a tight rope. The second thing he realized was that he was sitting upright in a chair, his wrists tied to the arms with the same type of rope. The third thing was the sharp ringing in his head and the sticky pain on his temple.

He _hated_ being right.

He hadn’t made any move when he came to, so for a blissful moment, Clint could listen to the voices around him.

“Wir haben ihn erwischt, als er aus dem Haus kam. Er hat sich nicht viel gestritten,” a voice said from behind Clint’s shoulder. It took a moment for Clint’s fuzzy brain to pinpoint the language as German, and another moment to translate. _We caught him walking out of the house. He didn’t put up much of a fight._

That was enough to piss Clint off. He _would_ have put up a hell of a fight if he hadn’t been blindsided. He should have been paying more attention. That was his job, for fuck’s sake.

“Vielleicht waren unsere Informationen falsch. Vielleicht sind die Gerüchte nicht wahr.” _Perhaps our information was wrong. Perhaps the rumors are not true._ That came from a voice in front of Clint. A whisper at the back of his mind told him to keep quiet and listen to the rest of what they had to say, but there was just something about the way the man in front of him had said it that made Clint burn to prove him wrong.

“Take this fucking bag off my head and I’ll show you just how true they are,” Clint said in a low tone under his breath. For a moment, nothing happened, and Clint wondered if they even spoke English. He would have been more than a little disappointed if his threat had gone unnoticed.

Before he could doubt himself anymore, the bag was being ripped off his head from behind. The room was bright. _Very_ bright, and it took Clint longer than he would have liked to adjust.

Once he did, he saw a burly man sitting behind a desk in front of him, surrounded by men all dressed in black. Clint recognized one of them as the man who had knocked him unconscious. Making a mental note to kill him first, Clint counted eight other men in the room, and he was willing to bet there was more behind him.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, friend,” the man in front of him said, his voice heavily accented German.

Clint glared. “You pistol whip and kidnap all your friends?”

“I apologize for the rough treatment. My name is Luis Fischer, and I have been looking forward to this meeting for a long time.”

Clint couldn’t help the roll of his eyes. “Can’t say I share the sentiment.” He didn’t care who this Fischer character was, or what he wanted. All he cared about was snagging his bag and breaking out of here so he could get paid. Then he could disappear again.

“I assure you, your mind will be changed once you hear my offer, friend,” Fischer said.

Clint couldn’t help it. Something inside him snapped. He gripped the chair’s arms so tight in his fists, his knuckles turned white. His expression didn’t change, but he knew his anger was clear in his eyes from the way Fischer shifted in his seat. 

“I’m not your friend,” Clint muttered, venom lacing every word. “And I don’t give a shit what you have to say.”

“Even if I have a job offer for you?”

“I have a job,” Clint shot back.

Fischer relaxed back into his chair as if a deal had already been made. “I will pay you double what you’re making now.”

Clint said nothing.

Fischer shrugged. “Triple,” he amended. “With a 100,000 dollar downpayment as a sign of good faith.”

Something inside Clint waivered. His money had been running dry these last few months, and he was in a tight spot. Jobs weren’t coming in like they used to.

The feeling of too many eyes on his shoulders was enough for him to decide he had enough. Without warning, Clint stood, bringing the chair with him. He didn’t need to look to know the man standing directly behind him was advancing. Clint stepped forward, planting one foot on the edge of Fischer’s desk. He pushed off, flipping backward. The chair hit the man over the head and shattered, worthless over the floor. As the man fell, Clint landed gracefully on his feet. He used the broken arms of the chair he still had gripped in his hands to attack the two men closest to him. He swung both arms out, catching both men in the temples.

Clint didn’t watch them fall, and instead turned his attention to the six other men left in the room. He made quick work of shimmying his wrists out of the rope restraining his wrists, leaving the wooden arms free. He threw both together, the shards of wood flying true. They struck two oncoming men in the throats, the ragged ends catching their jugulars. Clint tried to ignore the sounds of them choking on their own blood as he reached down for the knife he kept hidden in his boot. The same knife these thugs hadn’t been smart enough to look for. He swung his arm in a wide arc, slashing the closest man across the chest. He swung his fists in retaliation, but Clint was faster than he was. He brought the knife up to the man’s throat, cutting clean through it as he moved onto the next. 

Two bodies hit the floor seconds apart from each other. Clint wasted no time, not having to look as he threw the knife over Fischer’s head. It caught the man behind him in the chest. Clint didn’t have to look to know he’d hit the man’s heart. That just left the idiot who had attacked him.

While he was distracted with the sounds of his dying comrades, Clint pulled the man’s pistol from where he knew it was resting against his hip, and raised the weapon to whip him in the temple, _hard_. Even as the man fell, Clint dispatched one round, between his eyes. The room fell silent as Clint moved back to stand in front of Fischer’s desk.

To his credit, Fischer hadn’t moved from where he was sitting, and now he looked up at Clint with a cool smile.

There was a long moment of silence as Clint tossed the two options over in his head. At the end of the day, he didn’t see much of a choice.

Clint set the gun down on Fischer’s desk, folding his arms over his chest.

“What’s the job?”

Fischer smiled wide, gesturing for Clint to take the other, intact seat in front of his desk. Clint made no move to sit. “First, if we are to do business, I must know your name.”

There was no visible infliction in Clint’s expression at the question, but deep down he felt his stomach turn. Clint didn’t have a name, or a face. He was nobody.

Clint steeled his gaze, hardening the walls he had constructed around himself, staring Fischer dead in the eyes.

“Call me Hawkeye.”

* * *

“Enter.”

The call was sharp, and demanded no question, as all of Nick Fury’s commands did. There was a reason he was one of the most feared and respected Directors the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Espionage and Logistics Division had ever seen. 

He would never say so out loud, but he knew the stern command was wasted as none other than Phil Coulson walked into his office. Nick had learned a long time ago that even if Phil held him in the highest respect, he had never feared him. Not as an agent, not as a Director. It was a part of their mutual understanding that made their friendship so special.

Phil didn’t waiver as he strode into Nick’s office, purpose behind his step. He came to a stop a foot from his desk and dropped a file down in front of him.

Nick didn’t let his eyes drop down to the file, instead settled them on his agent’s face.

Phil folded his arms behind his back, speaking without prompt. “Meet Clint Barton, or as he’s better known these days, Hawkeye.”

Nick let his eyes drop down to the file as he flipped it open. Staring back at him was a grainy photograph taken from an ATM camera of a man with a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Well, man was a bit of a stretch. The face staring up at Nick Fury was nothing more than that of a kid.

“Why do I care about some kid, Agent?” Nick asked, his tone suggesting he wanted nothing but the truth.

Phil had no problem delivering. “Orphaned at a young age, Clint Barton dropped off the map for most of his life. Appeared in a now disbanded circus for a few years, then disappeared again. He resurfaced about a year ago as a cat burglar for hire. Sometime in the past year, he disappeared for about a month before resurfacing. With a change in career it seems.”

Nick flipped through the kid’s admittedly slim file, reading along with what Phil was saying. As his agent paused, Nick skimmed the next line. He raised his gaze to meet Phil’s and he arched a questioning eyebrow.

Phil continued, never once faltering. “It appears he has started taking contracted hits for larger sums of money.”

“Why are you showing me this, Coulson?”

Phil took a calculated breath. “Consider this my official request to be put on his case, sir.”

Leave it to Phil to take Nick off his guard. He hadn’t been expecting that. Phil was one of his best field agents, and Nick knew he was capable of taking out some of the deadliest threats they had ever seen. But a direct request to track down some psycho kid who killed for money? That wasn’t like Phil at all.

“What’s this really about, Coulson?”

Phil cracked a smile. “Ask me what he did for the circus, sir.”

He raised his eyebrow again, but couldn’t help himself. “What did he do for the circus, Agent?”

“Marksman. But that’s not the best part.”

Nick sighed. “What’s the best part?”

“Records show that he never missed. Not _once_. The claim has held up in the criminal underworld as well.”

Nick deadpanned. That _was_ interesting. He didn’t know if he believed it, but such a claim was something to be looked into. Nick was smart. He saw the glint in Phil’s eyes as he talked about the kid. It was dangerous, seeing as he was asking to be put on this operation.

It was admiration.

“If all you’re saying is true,” and Nick didn’t doubt it was, “The Council will issue the kill order.”

He needed Phil to know that. If he was sent after this kid, it would be to put a bullet between his brain. His agent nodded in acceptance.

“I’ll call you when I have the details.”

“Thank you, sir,” Phil answered, turning to leave.

Phil might have accepted the kill order he knew was coming, but that didn’t mean Nick didn’t see the look in his eyes. Didn’t mean deep down, he knew that when it came down to it, his agent wouldn’t be able to look Clint Barton in the eyes and pull the trigger.

Nick Fury knew that was why he would be putting him on this operation. He knew Phil Coulson was the only agent he had who could look at a cold blooded killer and see the kid hiding behind his eyes.

Nick snapped Barton’s file closed and stood. He had a Council meeting to attend.

* * *

_Next Time:_

_He fired, and didn’t watch the arrow land in the closest man's chest, as he was already another and fired. Clint drew a third arrow for the last man the same time he raised his gun. They fired together._

_Everyone knew bullets travelled faster than arrows._


	2. Beggin' For Another Chance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd we're back! Things are picking up speed a little bit in this one and we get to see the Hawk in action! 
> 
> A huge thank you to Aggie2011 for the comment on chapter one. She's such an inspiration and it meant so much coming from her.
> 
> Also, a huge thanks to my moderator and editor Noah for all the help he gave me in grtting this story finished.
> 
> Now, without further ado...

* * *

_ “Hope is such a beautiful word, but it often seems very fragile. Life is still being needlessly hurt and destroyed.” - Michael Jackson. _

* * *

It was raining.

Actually, to be more precise, it was  _ still  _ raining. After nearly four hours, the rain showed no sign of letting up. Clint hated the rain, more than just about anything. It was relentless, unescapable, and just plain unpleasant.

Even from his vantage from a ninth floor covered balcony, Clint was still getting soaked. Because it wasn’t just raining, but it was raining  _ and  _ it was windy. There was nowhere he could have gone to escape the torrents of water from blowing into his face.

Clint pulled his hood lower over his eyes, shrinking back into his jacket. It didn’t matter how much he hated it. He would have to force himself to ignore it anyway. Doing just that, Clint brought his sniper scope back up to his eye, as he found the window he had been watching for eight days straight. Gioanta Monti was sitting behind his desk, buried in stacks of paperwork, paying the world around him no mind.

Even if he had been, Clint knew his target wouldn’t be able to see him. He was nearly 300 yards away after all.

_ “Vielleicht waren unsere Informationen falsch. Vielleicht sind die Gerüchte nicht wahr.” Perhaps our information was wrong. Perhaps the rumors are not true. _

The year-old memory flashed across Clint’s eyes without permission. He rubbed at his eyes, desperately trying to push Fischer’s words out of his head. He might have hated that man with every fiber of his being, but he couldn’t help but scoff at how wrong he had been. The rumors surrounding Clint Barton had proven to be far more than true. They had turned out to be understatements.

He was every bit the heartless killer they had accused him of being. More than that, he was skilled. So skilled, the assassin never missed a shot. Every contract he took, he lost no more than a single arrow per head. Clint had never needed more than that.

Something deep inside him twinged with fear at how easily he had slipped into this life. He had been a criminal for a long time now, but theft and murder were continents apart.

Not to Clint, apparently.

He had been living comfortably as an assassin for hire this past year, and hadn’t so much as stopped to think about what he was doing. At least, that’s what he told the world.

Truth be told, Clint questioned his sanity every goddamned day of his life. He wondered how fucked up someone had to be to kill people for  _ money _ , of all things. He did his best not to dwell on it, but the nightmares made it hard to forget.

Clint physically shook his head and pulled himself back to his current job.

Monti had arrived in London nine days ago, and it had taken Clint less than 24 hours to catch up with him. He had been tracking Monti since the airport, desperate to complete the hit before Monti returned to Italy from this so called business trip. If Clint had to follow Monti back to Italy, it would mean having to take out the hit of a husband and a father in the home where his wife and children lived.

Clint would do whatever it took to avoid that.

Pushing all thoughts of Monti’s family to the back of his mind, Clint settled into his position, mentally preparing himself for the mere hours of surveillance he had left before he could finish this job.

In Clint’s opinion, it couldn’t come soon enough.

* * *

“He’s in London.”

_ “Are you sure about this?” _

Phil Coulson nodded, even though the voice on the other end of the line couldn’t see him. “Positive. We were able to get ahead of him this time. Tracked down the man who issued the contract in the first place. A mercenary named Ethan Jocavitz.”

_ “He confirmed Barton’s location?”  _ Nick Fury asked.

“He didn’t need to. He gave us the name of his target. Gioanta Monti, Italian cardiologist. He landed in London nine days ago.”

_ “And Jocavitz?” _

“Neutralized,” Phil said, even as his agents disposed of the mercenary’s body. He had put the call into Fury minutes after they dispatched Jocavitz and his men.

_ “How fast can you get to London?”  _

“Four hours,” Phil responded, already knowing that question would be coming. He had been tracking the elusive Hawkeye for nearly five months, and he had never gotten this close before. It would be stupid to waste the oppertunity.

Even Fury could admit that.

_ “You’ve been given the green light, Agent. The Council has issued the order. Kill on sight,”  _ Fury said, his tone all business. Again, Phil nodded, mostly to himself. He had seen that coming too. That had always been the mission, after all.

Find Clint Barton and kill him.

An unfamiliar weight settled on Phil’s chest, something he couldn't shake. He had taken out his fair share of threats in the field without so much as a second thought. Maybe it was because Clint Barton was half the age of all the guys Phil had to retire over the years.

Or maybe it was just because Phil was having a hard time accepting that an eighteen year-old kid was nothing more than a cold blooded killer, with no soul left to salvage.

_ “Agent?” _

Fury’s voice pulled Phil out of his own head, and he realized he hadn't answered his Director. “Heard loud and clear, sir,” he said, hoping to mask the hesitancy in his voice. He didn’t have to see Nick Fury’s face to know he failed.

_ “Get this done, Agent, and come home.” _

“Sir yes sir.”

Even as he hung up the call and gave the order to his men, Phil knew when it came down to it, he wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger. That weight had settled in his stomach and didn’t seem to be going anywhere. He couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't as cut and dry as his other missions. Everyone deserved a second chance, after all.

Phil was convinced that was all this kid needed.

* * *

It was finally time.

After nearly nine full days of surveillance and planning, Clint was ready. Monti had just returned to his hotel room, and had stepped into the bathroom ten minutes ago. Clint knew he was showering, and he would be out of the bathroom in the next five minutes. He stood, stowing his sniper scope in his pack. He wouldn’t need it anymore. He had mapped out his shot hundreds of times over the past nine days, and knew he could make it with his eyes closed.

As Clint pulled his bow over his head, he began counting.

The bow had become part of his calling card, and had come to play an important part in tying all his kills to him. It was dangerous, but Clint needed to prove himself. It was the only way anyone would ever take him seriously.

Clint drew an arrow, looking through Monti’s hotel window. He knew Monti would step into his sight any minute now, and he took the care to count the seconds. He notched the arrow and drew the bowstring taunt.

Deep breath out. Inhale. Tighten back muscles. Hold.

Clint didn’t falter as he held his position on the window, holding his breath as he waited for Monti to open his bathroom door. The window for the shot would only be a few seconds wide, but that was all Clint ever needed.

He had counted all the way to four minutes and six seconds when he caught movement down in the alley below. It was late, and Clint knew the alley should have been empty for at least two more hours. He didn’t move to give himself away, but Monti was already briefly forgotten. Instead, Clint focused all his attention on the shadows below. He was able to make out four men, all moving in from the street opposite his building. They glanced up at Clint, and talked amongst themselves in low voices. From nine stories up, Clint couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he didn’t need to.

That was enough for him to know he was fucked.

Clint moved in a swift breath, changing the trajectory of his drawn arrow to directly below him. He relaxed his hand, and let the arrow fly. By the time the other three men realized their partner had fallen with an arrow in his skull, Clint had loosed another arrow, and a second man had fallen. By the time they got their guns up, Clint had dropped another. The last man came to his senses and ducked for cover below the balcony, and out of Clint’s line of sight.

Clint swore under his breath, pulling his bowstring over his head. He eyed the rooftop directly across from him and knew he would have to jump. He doubted those men had come alone and he had now given away his position.

He swore again. Couldn’t anything ever go  _ right  _ for once?

* * *

Phil had found him by accident in the end.

The moment he and his agents had touched base in London, they had split into teams of two to find Barton before he could slip away again. They knew where Gioana Monti was staying, and had started their search within a hundred yard radius from his hotel room. When that showed nothing, they expanded to two hundred. Phil’s men had been searching every possible vantage in the area, while he ran operational support from a cafe not too far away. He had been scanning any cameras he could get his hands on from his laptop, and still nothing.

He was good. He was very good.

Phil had needed to clear his head, so he took a walk through the London streets. That was when he saw him, perched on a balcony nine stories in the air and  _ three hundred  _ yards away from Monti. Somehow, Phil wasn’t surprised he had bestest their expectations. This would be a skill he would later come to respect and admire, but right now he was just dumbfounded.

He had called the location into his agents, and moved back to their mobile command, an armored van he had parked four blocks away. From the van, he would be able to monitor his agent’s body cams as well as the surrounding area simultaneously.

Phil had yet to give the word for his agents to take the building, when three of his agents sprouted arrows from their skulls. Phil didn’t need to look at their cams to know they were already dead.

They wouldn’t be doing this the easy way it seemed.

Phil cursed to himself, pulling up the street camera from the intersection across the street. No doubt Barton would be on the move. And now that he had killed three SHIELD agents, his men would want blood.

Phil was determined to prevent that.

* * *

Clint was in freefall.

He had jumped from the balcony to the rooftop two stories down, not willing to take the chance of more unexpected visitors showing up. He had picked his vantage for this roof specifically. It was flat, unlike most of London’s architecture, which meant it was a perfect escape route, even in the pouring rain.

Luck for Clint, the rain had stopped about an hour ago, but all the rooftops were still wet, which meant a quick escape had become all that more dangerous.

He hit the roof hard, rolling into his shoulder and over his quiver. He groaned to himself as his spine protested at the abuse. It would leave a bruise, but nothing more. Clint was on his feet in a breath and wasted no time before he took off running. By the time a new group of strangers hit his balcony, Clint was two rooftops away, and he wasn’t stopping.

He had mapped out his escape route nearly as many times as his line of sight for his shot - that he had never gotten to take - and knew exactly where he needed to jump to return to street level, four blocks away.

Clint didn’t stop sprinting until he hit the fire escape. Instead of taking the stairs, he wasted no time throwing himself over the edge. He held his hands out, grabbing out for the second story platform to stop his fall. And it would have, if the damn thing hadn’t been slick with rain water. Clint’s momentum was brought to a harsh stop as his head cracked against the side of the fire escape. For a moment, all he saw was white. It was the  _ pop _ of his shoulder sliding out of place that brought him back. Before he could even think about how hard that hurt, he was slipping. Clint’s abused shoulder couldn’t hold him up and then he was falling, two stories to the ground below.

He hit the ground hard and felt his ankle roll beneath him.

Clint swore, breathing out some of the pain. He knew it wasn’t broken as he brought himself back to his feet, but running on a twisted ankle was hard on it’s own.

Not wanting to risk more time hovering in one place, Clint moved to the mouth of the alley, where he knew his getaway vehicle was parked two streets down. He almost made it, too.

Clint was three feet from the mouth of the alley, when six men stepped out from the shadows and blocked his route. The anger washed over him immediately.

He was getting sick of this.

All of the men had their guns out, but they weren’t pointed at him yet. Clint flashed a dark smirk. He was moving before they could realize their fatal mistake.

Clint was on the man closest to him in an instant. He grabbed his gun, pulling sharply on his arm. He forced it straight, pressing the larger man’s back against his chest. As the other men raised their guns to fire, their bullets were blocked by the man Clint held hostage. He pointed the man’s gun at the others, wrapping his hand around his. He pulled the trigger twice, dropping the two men in front. They fell as Clint pushed the now deadweight down to the ground. He planted his good foot on his shoulder, pushing off as the remaining three trained their guns on him, Clint was in the air as bullets tore through the space he had just been in. He landed hard, and couldn’t help but wince in pain from the force on his ankle. He didn’t falter, however, and was already pulling his bow over his head and notching an arrow. 

He fired, and didn’t watch the arrow land in the closest man's chest, as he was already another and fired. Clint drew a third arrow for the last man the same time he raised his gun. They fired together.

Everyone knew bullets travelled faster than arrows.

As the man fell, his bullet landed in Clint’s shoulder and shot out the other side. Clint did nothing more but groan in pain as he felt himself stumble. His head was spinning before he ever hit the ground.

This day just kept getting better and better.

It took far longer than Clint would have liked for him to push himself into a sitting position. He looked down at the bullet wound, glad to see a minimal amount of blood. It wouldn’t kill him immediately. The incoming footsteps might, though.

Clint struggled to pull himself to his feet, his breathing shallow and ragged. He was beat to hell and everything just hurt, but he would be damned if he died in this dirty alley, in a country he hated, for a reason he didn’t know, by men he had never seen before.

He had barely made himself stable on his feet when the mouth of the alley was filled with ten men, all in state of the art gear, guns already raised. And they were all pointed at him.

_ Well, shit. _

* * *

_Next Time:_

_"I can't," he said suddenly. "I'm too far gone."_

_He wasn't looking at his face, but something told him that Coulson was smiling. "No one is too far gone."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoo another one down. Thank you all for making it this far. Since these chapters are written the way they are, I'm considering posting three in a couple hours. So let me know of you want it early!
> 
> I live for comments and criticism.
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> xo


	3. If There's Any Chance At All

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again! Chapter Three! Clint and Phil come face to face for the first time! I love these next couple of chapters a lot, as I love to see where Phil and Clint's relationship starts.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

_ “Hope is like the sun, which, as we journey toward it, casts the shadow of our burden behind us.” – Samuel Smiles _

* * *

“Don’t shoot,” Phil practically screamed over the communications as his men flooded into the alley. “Hold position. That’s an order.”

All ten of his remaining agents held their position as he had ordered, all guns pointed at the kid at the other end of the alley. Phil couldn’t stop staring at the image of Clint Barton, beat to hell and covered in blood. The kid had taken a hell of a beating, but here he was, standing in front of ten armed agents with nothing but murder in his eyes.

At least, it looked like nothing but murder. But Phil could see the thing the kid was trying so desperate to hide. Fear.

Phil didn’t know if it was fear of death or fear of something greater, but it didn’t matter. Clint Barton could hide behind a mask of a cold blooded killer who could put up a hell of a fight, but at the end of the day he was just a  _ kid _ , who was afraid.

That was all Phil needed.

He slammed the door of the van open, not bothering to make sure it closed behind him. He marched into that alley, pushing past his agents. As soon as their team lead was in the line of fire, the agents lowered their guns a fraction.

“Stand down,” Phil said, never once taking his eyes off of the kid in front of him.

“But sir-”

“That’s an order."

There was no question in his voice. The agents behind him lowered their weapons and moved out of the mouth of the alley as ordered. Phil knew they would return to the van. Not far, but far enough.

Now that they were alone, Phil finally got a good look at him. Clint Barton was every bit the eighteen year-old his file said he was. Still, it was shocking to see such a young kid in front of him. Maybe it was the darkness behind his eyes. Barton had a look no eighteen year-old should ever have to carry. He had a colorful bruise on his temple, his right arm was hanging useless at his side, a bullet wound on his shoulder, and he wasn’t putting any real weight on his left foot. The fact that he was standing at all was the only testament to his strength that Phil needed.

“Clint Barton?”

He didn’t flinch. The only sign that the name bothered him at all was the cloud of darkness that formed in his blue-gray eyes.

“Or would you prefer I call you Hawkeye?” Phil asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Barton said, almost as if on instinct.

Phil frowned and glanced down at the bodies littered around him, all with matching arrows in their chest. He didn’t need to point out how obviously of a lie that was, so he didn't. "I'm not here to kill you."

That got him a scoff that Phil thought sounded a lot like a laugh.

"You seem to be trying pretty hard to do just that," Barton shot back.

"A lapse of judgement," Phil said, taking one step towards him. Barton responded with a step back. He hadn't reached for the weapon slung across his back, and that gave Phil a glimpse of hope. It didn't last long.

Phil didn’t know where the gun came from, but one moment it wasn't there and the next, it was pointed at his chest.

"Walk away," Barton warned, thumbing down the hammer.

"I'm wearing armor," Phil pointed out, uselessly. His head was exposed, and Barton knew it.

"Your head isn't," he said, almost as if he was reading Phil's mind. A dark smirk crept across his lips. "And I don't miss."

Phil took a breath. Maybe this was going to be harder than he thought. Maybe he had been wrong.

_ No. _ He hadn't been. Barton wasn't lost. If he was, he would have pulled the trigger by now.

"No one else has to die tonight."

Barton didn't need to speak. His eyes spoke for him. Phil could tell how much he believed in that.

"Says you," he said, but there was a second of hesitation. That was all Phil needed.

He moved quickly, grabbing Barton's gun and twisting it sharply back against his wrist. He was forced to let go of the weapon, but he didn't hesitate. Barton was moving in the next breath. He anchored himself on his solid foot, swinging his abused one towards Phil. Using this to his advantage, Phil grabbed his tortured ankle and twisted. He felt a twinge of regret as Barton hissed in pain and fell down to his knees.

Phil didn't let himself hesitate. He stepped forward, pressing Barton's gun flush against the back of his head. He heard Barton suck in a sharp breath, but he showed no other signs of distress.

"Care to talk yet?"

* * *

Clint didn't know who the hell this guy was or why he was here, but he was getting very fed up with the situation.

The feeling of his own gun pressed against the back of his head was almost comforting. Maybe he would pull the trigger and Clint wouldn't have to deal with  _ any  _ of it anymore.

As if just to spite him, the bullet never came. Instead this guy was persistent about talking.

The last thing Clint wanted to do was talk. But he didn't protest. How could he, with a gun to his head?

"My name is Phil Coulson, I'm with an agency called SHIELD," he said. Clint frowned. He'd never heard of them. "We're a covert government agency based in America."

Was this guy a mind reader too?

"Who cares?" Clint spat back. He didn't care who he was or why he was here. If he was going to kill him, Clint wished he would just do it.

"You might. I'm here to offer you a job."

Clint was getting tired of people offering him jobs at gunpoint. So he snarled the exact same response he had said last time. "I already have a job."

"I'm here to offer you a  _ better _ job," Coulson amended. Clint shook his head slightly. Men like him didn't  _ get  _ better jobs. They got handed the shit end of the stick and died early deaths. That was his fate, sealed in stone since he took the first job a year ago.

But there was something in the back of Clint's mind that made him falter. A whisper, a plea for something better. A cry for him to escape this so he didn't end up dead in an alley, in a country where no one even knew his name.

Clint didn't want to die a nobody.

Maybe that was why he hesitated. Maybe that was why he didn't snap at Phil Coulson to kill him where he stood.

Maybe that's why he asked, "As an assassin?",

"Yes. But an assassin with a purpose. A story behind every name and a good reason to kill. I assume that's more than you get now?"

He didn’t need to answer. Clint didn’t ask questions he didn't want answers to. He didn't need a reminder that he was a  _ bad  _ person killing  _ good  _ people. He didn't care. He  _ couldn't  _ care.

But he did. Deep down, it had always dug at his soul. Clint had never wanted to turn into a monster.

"I can't," he said suddenly. "I'm too far gone."

He wasn't looking at his face, but something told him that Coulson was smiling. "No one is too far gone."

And with that he disappeared, leaving Clint alone in the alley. Clint spun around, looking to make sure he was really gone. He was, and had left nothing but a simple business card with a black logo and a phone number in his place.

* * *

Phil had ordered his men back to their temporary base after he left Clint Barton in that alley. He knew what he had done was a terrible risk. He had defied a direct kill order from the Council. He knew there would be hell to pay.

But right now, Phil could care less.

He hadn't been wrong about Barton. He knew that now. He had seen question in Barton. He'd seen hesitance.

The fact that he was even alive told him that he was right.

"Sir?"

Phil looked up to meet one of his agent's - Jefferson's eyes.

"We had a clear shot. Why didn't you call the kill order?"

Phil straightened, never breaking eye contact. "The mission parameters have changed. We're to bring Clint Barton in. Alive." It was a clear lie, but the less his men knew, the easier it would be for them to get off on plausible deniability.

"He killed half our squad," Jefferson argued. Phil shook his head.

"He will be dealt with properly," Phil assured, looking down at his cell phone. Barton would call.

He had to.

* * *

Phil's phone rang at three am.

He pulled himself out of sleep that hadn't been long enough and scrubbed a hand over his face. He didn’t bother looking at the caller ID before answering.

"Coulson."

_ "This offer legit?" _

Phil sat up straight, suddenly wide awake. "Barton?"

_ "Is it a real job?"  _ He repeated.

"It's real," Phil assured.

_ "I'm eighteen, you know? Been a criminal for two years." _

"I know. If you come on board, SHIELD can take care of that for you."

There was a long stretch of silence over the line and Phil wondered if he had hung up. When he spoke again, his voice was softer.

_ "Why me?" _

"Why you?" Phil echoed, confused.

_ "Why didn't you kill me?" _

Phil didn’t answer right away. Why hadn't he? Because he was just a kid who had gone down the wrong path? Because he had been afraid? Or was it because when it came down to it, when he had the clear shot on Phil, he hadn't pulled the trigger.

"Because, Barton. You hesitated."

There was another period of silence, and Phil heard Barton take a shaky breath.

_ "Monti boarded his flight home this morning. I didn't kill him _ ," he added needlessly. Phil hadn't expected him to. He waited until Clint continued.  _ "There's a cafe on the westside of the river. If you're serious, I'll be there." _

"I'll pick you up within the hour," Phil said, already standing and pulling his boots on.

_ "And Coulson?" _

"Yes?"

_ "If you're lying to me, I won't hesitate again." _

Phil nodded, as if he had been expecting that. "I'm not lying."

Barton said nothing more and the line clicked dead. Phil pulled his phone away from his ear and stared down at it with shock.

He actually called.

Which meant there was one other phone call Phil had to make before he picked him up. One that would determine the future for both of them. One that could prove to make all of Phil’s efforts worthless.

And Phil already knew it wasn't going to be a happy conversation.

He sighed heavily and started dialing.

* * *

_Next Time:_

  
_“My agent is putting a lot on the line for you, Barton,” Fury said, suddenly changing the subject. He needed Barton to know exactly what was at stake here. “He thinks you have the ability to be something better.”_

_The doubt in Barton’s eyes spoke for itself._

_“Prove him right.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one down. You can see Clint and Phil's relationship didn't have the best start. But they'll get there, I promise! Just stick with me a little longer!
> 
> As always, I appreciate all my readers and love feedback! See you in chapter four.
> 
> xo


	4. Spent My Whole Life Wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again! Chapter Five so soon? You know it! It's starting to get into the grit of the story, and I can't help myself. I love the emotion in this one, so buckle up and enjoy the ride.

* * *

_ “Survival was my only hope, success my only revenge.” - Patricia Cornwell _

* * *

"You have lost your goddamn mind, Agent!" Nick Fury screamed into the receiver of his cell phone.

_ "I made a calculated decision,"  _ Coulson argued back.

"You were given a  _ direct  _ kill order. And you denied it," Fury responded, his voice back under control.

_ "I made a different call. It wasn't the wrong one, sir."  _ On the normal occasion, Coulson would never argue a direct order. He would never argue period. The only exception was when he was absolutely, without a doubt convinced he was right.

Fury knew the call he was going to make, but that didn’t mean Coulson needed to know that. Fury let out a sharp exhale. "He agreed to come in, peacefully?"

_ "With pleasure." _

Something told Fury that his agent was stretching the truth on that one. Fury let the silence hang between them for a little longer than necessary, and Phil continued without prompting.

_ "He wants to be better. I can see that in him, sir. I'd bet a hell of a lot more than my job that he'd be better to us as an asset than a body." _

"What are you saying, Agent?"

_ "Let me bring him in, and if I'm wrong, I'll take the fall for it." _

Fury didn't answer. That was a hell of a lot of trust to put in an unstable assassin for hire he barely knew. Phil had conviction, Fury would give him that.

"You know what you're saying?"

_ "I do, sir. I have faith in him." _

"You have faith," Fury repeated, voice full of disbelief. He desperately hoped his agent wasn't wrong about this one. It wouldn’t do SHIELD any good to lose Phil Coulson. "Bring him in. If he can pass preliminary training, I'll  _ consider  _ putting him in the rotation."

Fury didn't have to see his agent to know he was smiling.

_ "Thank you, sir. We'll be outbound to New York by dawn." _

"Good." Fury hesitated for a moment. "Stay safe, Agent."

_ "I always do, sir." _

The line disconnected and Fury rolled his eyes and sent up a silent prayer to whoever might be listening, begging that Phil wasn’t wrong about him.

* * *

They had picked up Clint Barton from exactly where he said he'd be. It was a quick drive to SHIELD's private airstrip before they were New York bound.

Barton hadn’t said a word to anyone, and picked a window seat far away from everyone. He had turned his attention out the window and refused to make eye contact with any of them.

Phil didn’t blame him. A few hours ago, these men were trying to kill him.

He was on the plane, that was a good start. He was sitting with his bow across his lap, but he hadn't made a threat towards anyone. He seemed compliant, for the time being. Phil made himself busy with the post op report. He knew it would have to be throughout for Phil to have any chance of pulling this off. He made sure to keep Barton in the corner of his eye as he typed. Not that he didn't trust him, but more to be sure he was actually here. Phil had always had a twinge of doubt when it came down to actually finding the archer, and he was still trying to wrap his head around it.

It was now that he realized just how young he really was. Reading a file that said Clint Barton was eighteen was not enough to prepare Phil for actually seeing it. His wounds seemed to have been treated - Phil silently hoped the kid hadn't patched them up himself - but the bruising on his temple and down his arms stood out against his pale skin. The dark circles under his eyes attested to just how little sleep Barton had gotten over what Phil assumed to be the past ten days.

Phil tried to focus on his paperwork, but he couldn’t pull his mind away from the eighteen year-old sitting across from him.

If Barton felt Phil's gaze, he showed no sign of it. Then again, Phil hadn't been expecting him too.

The eight hour flight had been uneventful and boring, but Clint had made a point to show how uninterested he really was. He sat the whole time, unmoving, eyes pointed out the window. When he was satisfied everyone was going to leave him alone, he spent his time watching the sky and desperately trying  _ not  _ to think about what had happened.

Trying not to think about the man called Phil Coulson who was sitting five feet to his right. The man who had the chance to kill him but decided not to.

_ What an idiot. _

Clint kept that sentiment to himself as they landed and didn't move from his seat as everyone else exited the plane. Only when it was just him and Coulson did he bother pulling his gaze from the window. He stood, bow clenched in hand, eyes fixed on Coulson.

He arched a questioning brow.

"The Director will want to see you," Coulson said, not bothering to look up from his laptop. He typed a few more sentences before snapping it shut and sliding it into his bag. "Your's is a special case, so he's taking personal interest."

Clint didn't answer. He had nothing to say to that. He was sure this so-called Director would be pissed seven ways from Sunday that Clint was here. Coulson hadn’t explicitly told Clint that he had been sent to kill him, but something told him he hadn't been shot for fun.

Coulson finally stood and gestured to the door of the plane with his eyes. Clint let him step out first, then followed behind. He had seen the compound from the air, but as he approached on foot, he realized how big it really was. It was the only testament Clint needed to the agency's power.

He followed Phil silently, eyes never once settling. He shot out a deathly glare if anyone had the audacity to make eye contact with him. If Coulson noticed, he didn’t show it. Instead, the man walked with a purpose behind his shoulder, until they got to an elevator.

"Making friends early on?" He asked under his breath, voice filled with sarcasm. Clint glared at the back of his head, irritated at how perceptive the man seemed to be.

"I don't need friends," Clint shot back, tightening his grip on his bow. They hadn't taken it away from him. It was either a sign of good faith or stupidity.

As the elevator door opened, Clint was beginning to wonder which it was.

* * *

Nick Fury knew the knock was coming before it happened. He had gotten word that his men had landed inbound from London ten minutes ago, and he knew Phil would be bringing up Clint Barton for initial assessment.

So Fury wasn't startled by the firm knock on his door. He made no move to answer it, as he absentmindedly filled out a report. They could wait. It was both a test of Barton's patience and a minor punishment for his agent's insubordination.

The second Phil had called in his change of plans, Fury had called a Council meeting. Even as he did so, he was battling exactly what he was going to tell them. Though at the end of the day, there was no question.

The Council hadn't been pleased when Fury told them that he had revoked the kill order in exchange for bringing Barton in as a possible asset, but Fury didn't live to please.

That didn’t mean he was letting Phil off the hook, though. He had risked everything to bring this kid in, and Fury needed to make sure he realized that. The Council might not take corrective actions, but Fury would, if for no other reason than to make sure his agent felt the weight of what he had done.

When Fury gave a sharp, "Enter," and Phil pushed inside his office, the Director was convinced Phil had lost his mind. The amount of instability that was flooding off of Clint Barton was enough cause for concern. The look in his eyes was cause for something greater.

Fury had never seen such darkness in most grown men, much less an eighteen year-old kid. For him to have that level of darkness behind his eyes spoke to the person he had become.

"Director Fury," Phil said with a nod. "Clint Barton."

Barton made no acknowledgement at the introduction, but Fury swore he saw his hand tighten on his bow. He was obviously familiar with the weapon, in a way that only came after a lifetime of use. Fury knew he was deadly with it, and was sincerely hoping he wasn't about to find himself on the wrong end of one of his arrows.

"You're dismissed, Agent," Fury said, keeping his eyes fixed on Barton.

"But sir-"

"I said dismissed."

Phil nodded slowly, giving Barton one last look before he shuffled out of Fury's office. He could deal with him later. He waited until Phil had closed the door firmly behind him before gesturing for Barton to sit down across from his desk. The teen made no move to listen and Fury did what he could to not take it personal. Instead he continued as if he hadn’t bothered to notice his defiance.

“Agent Coulson has informed me of your request to join our rotation,” Fury said, not offering an explanation. A small crease formed between Barton’s eyebrows, but otherwise, he didn’t ask, so he continued. “When I heard of your willingness, I waved the kill order.”

There was a knowing glint in Barton’s eyes, but he didn’t say anything. So Fury left it there. He didn’t need to say anymore on the subject.

“Your employment with us is contingent on your ability to complete pulmonary training, same as any other agent we hire,” Fury explained. He wasn’t expecting an answer, so he didn’t wait for one. “Failure to complete any training and failure to pass any evaluations will result in disavowment.”

Barton nodded as if he had expected as much.

“My agent is putting a lot on the line for you, Barton,” Fury said, suddenly changing the subject. He needed Barton to know exactly what was at stake here. “He thinks you have the ability to be something better.”

The doubt in Barton’s eyes spoke for itself.

“Prove him right.”

That doubt hung in Barton’s eyes for a fraction longer, then it was gone, replaced with something Fury was very familiar with. In a flash, it was gone and his expression was unreadable again. But that split second was all Fury needed to learn everything he needed to know about Clint Barton. He would do what it took for him to be a better person, no matter how hard of an uphill battle it would be. Fury knew, because that was the same look he had seen in Phil Coulson’s eyes when he had asked to be assigned to Barton’s case. It was the same look he saw in the mirror every single morning.

Determination.

* * *

_Next Time:_

_Eventually, he felt the eyes on him, but paid no attention. He couldn’t identify who it was watching him from the upper observation deck, and he didn’t care. He drew another arrow, letting it fly before he had even sighted the target. It didn’t matter, and the arrow flew true. All of his arrows did. Clint felt no pride in his skill tonight. He wasn’t down here to celebrate._

_He was punishing himself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting emotional, am I right? But Clint is officially SHIELD! I promise Phil will be a more prominent character in the next chapter, so no worries.
> 
> Until next time!
> 
> xo


	5. Sure Could Use Your Help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Five coming at you a little late, but it's here as promised! Like I said, i really enjoy these next few chapters and I hope you do to!

* * *

_“Few things in the world are more powerful than a positive push. A smile. A world of optimism and hope. A 'you can do it' when things are tough.” – Richard M. DeVos_

* * *

“Barton, on the mat.”

Clint drug himself out of his absent mind train of thought, pushing the idea of climbing up into the gym rafters to the back of his mind. It was something he could consider at a later time.

He made eye contact with the man who had introduced himself as Agent Jack Bryant, field agent trainer and primary physical instructor. Clint had ignored most of what he had been saying, not really in the mood for a sparring lesson. He made a point to make his boredom obvious, which was likely why Bryant was calling him on the mat now.

Clint shrugged and stepped onto the mat, as if he had a hundred things better to do than be here right now. Bryant wasn’t taking any of his shit, and stared him down.

“If you don’t mind gracing us with your attention, why don’t you demonstrate the move I just described,” Bryant said, folding his arms over his chest. It was clear that he knew Clint hadn’t been paying attention.

“I’ll pass,” he said nonchalantly. Bryant glared.

“Too good for us, or something princess?”

That got Bryant a death glare from Clint, but he was careful enough to let that be his only rise in anger. Bryant shook his head.

“You just have it all figured out, don’t you?” he asked, rhetorically.

“Pretty much,” Clint answered anyway. Bryant shifted, moving to stand in a combat position.

“Then put me on the mat, princess.”

Clint felt all eyes on him as he smirked darkly at Bryant. He shed his jacket, tossing it to the side of the mat. Clint fell into his own ready position and raised an eyebrow at Bryant.

That was all the prompting the other man needed before he was lunging at Clint. He was forced to duck under Bryant’s fast right hook, followed by a swift upcut. Clint dodged to the side, slamming his closed fist into Bryant’s exposed side. The hit landed, but Bryant was already bringing up his knee to connect with Clint’s side. He tensed as it landed, bringing down his elbow to pin Bryant’s leg to his side. He wrapped his arm around the leg, twisting sharply. Bryant spun, slipping for the mat, but he managed to grab Clint’s free arm to pull him with. Clint released his leg and spun with the force of the spin, carrying his legs over his head. Bryant landed face first on the mat and Clint managed to catch himself on his feet.

Bryant wasted no time jumping back to his feet, but Clint was already moving. He maneuvered himself behind Bryant, kicking his boot out to hit the back of his knee. Bryant fell down onto one knee, and Clint grabbed both of his shoulders. He pushed up and off of him, bringing himself up to wrap his leg around Bryant’s neck. The other man grabbed onto Clint’s leg tightly, but he wasn’t letting up. He latched his second leg around his neck, locking his ankles together.

Bryant gave up trying to remove his legs and instead focused on standing. He got to both of his feet and latched his hands around Clint’s ankles. He felt the man start to fall backward a breath too late. Clint threw his arms over his head in an attempt to prevent his face from being slammed into the mat. He succeeded, but Bryant had a killer grip on his legs. As Clint tried to complete his rotation, Bryant squeezed his ankles and twisted _hard_. That was when Clint’s abused shoulder decided to give out. Clint lost his balance halfway through his rotation, and slipped down to hit the mat. He landed on his back, which was the only reason he saw Bryant’s foot flying towards his face.

Clint was forced to crabwalk backwards to prevent his face from getting kicked in. Refusing to get up, Clint rolled into a backwards somersault, landing on his feet. Bryant was already on top of him, open palm slamming into the side of his temple. Clint’s eyes went blurry as he blindly lashed out for Bryant. The trainer had him now. He manipulated Clint into a tight headlock and squeezed.

For a terrifying moment, Clint couldn’t breath.

After what felt like an hour, Bryant finally let him go and shoved him down to the mat. Clint caught himself, but didn’t dare straighten again.

“Got it figured out, huh?” Bryant scoffed. “Get the hell off my mat, Barton. And pay the fuck attention.”

* * *

_Five Months Later_

* * *

Nick Fury scrubbed a tired hand over his face as he finally pulled himself from his office at the late hour of three in the morning. He had a team sent out into the field on an emergency meeting two days ago, and the mission had ended an hour ago. It took Fury all of one hour to finish his post op debrief, but he hadn’t exactly slept in the last few days. He rarely did when he had an active mission as high risk as this one had been.

All he wanted to do was get some sleep, but he still needed to file his report with the Administration department. Which was why he was taking the elevator down to the ground floor instead of to his private quarters above.

He made quick work of the walk, and wasted no time dropping his report on the front desk of Administration. He gave nothing more than a nod of thanks before he was turning on his heel and strutting back to the elevator.

Nick didn’t know how he ended up at the range. He had been mulling over the post operation details, and his feet had carried themselves all the way to SHIELD’s indoor range on the far west end of the facility. He frowned and turned to leave when he realized the range wasn’t empty. Nick stopped in his tracks, looking down into the range.

He wasn’t surprised to see none other than Clint Barton spiriting between targets, bow in hand, and pain in his eyes.

* * *

At first, Clint didn’t realize he wasn’t alone.

He was so caught up in his head, all he had the attention for was his bow in his hand and the targets down range. He had been down here for hours, firing his bow over and over again, if for no other reason than to keep his mind busy.

Eventually, he felt the eyes on him, but paid no attention. He couldn’t identify who it was watching him from the upper observation deck, and he didn’t care. He drew another arrow, letting it fly before he had even sighted the target. It didn’t matter, and the arrow flew true. All of his arrows did. Clint felt no pride in his skill tonight. He wasn’t down here to celebrate.

He was punishing himself.

“When they told me you weren’t sleeping in your bunkroom, I assumed you had just found another place to sleep,” a voice said from behind him. Clint didn’t have to look to know it was Nick Fury who had joined him on the range.

In the five months since he had joined SHIELD, he had only spoken to the man once. He had seen him from a distance, though, watching him with a calculated gaze. It seemed he wanted to ensure Clint was making good on his unspoken promise. He had been. He’d done everything they’d asked, from mandatory endurance training to IQ tests and psyche evaluations. There had been a fair amount of disdain and sarcasm thrown in between, but he hadn’t fought against them.

He had caused his fair share of trouble to be fair, but he hadn’t killed anyone, and he hadn’t started any of the fights he had been in. He didn’t need to start them, so long as he knew he could finish them. He always could.

It became very apparent early on that Clint outclassed most, if not all, of his fellow trainees both on the mat and the range. He’d been in it longer than they had.

Still, he did his best to keep to himself and take all of their orders with no more than a snarky comment. He knew he was being watched, and knew they were looking for any reason to drop him. Not that Clint cared about getting dropped.

It was Coulson that kept him in line. He hadn’t seen the other agent again either, but he knew he was still around. He knew he was still hanging in jeopardy because of the risk he had supposedly taken for Clint. He knew that if he fucked up, it was Coulson who would pay the price.

Clint hated him for the position he had put him in, but he couldn’t bring himself to act on his anger. He couldn’t condemn the life of another just to make a point.

He just couldn't.

Fury had joined him on the lower level of the range, but Clint didn’t give him the attention he seemed to be after. He never once pulled his eyes from downrange, and never once stopped firing. He knew his arms were shaking and could feel slick blood coating his wrists. He hadn’t worn his guards on purpose.

Clint needed the pain.

“Look at me, Barton,” Fury said, leaving no room for question. His authority was sound and strong. Not that Clint had a problem defying authority.

He had passed his preliminary training with what they had called “flying colors” two weeks ago, and had been given a promise to be assigned to his permanent duty by the end of the month.

Clint wasn’t exactly holding his breath.

Doubt had been festering in his mind since day one, but tonight it ran free. Clint wasn’t salvageable. Phil Coulson had been wrong. He _was_ too far gone.

He didn’t acknowledge Fury, and let two more arrows fly in quick succession. He could feel the older man’s single eye burn into his back, but he didn’t let himself flinch. 

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said simply, not willing to offer more explanation.

“Barton.”

Clint hesitated, bowstring pulled back to his cheek. He should stop, he knew, but he didn’t want to talk to Fury or anyone else. He didn’t want to have to explain the look in his eyes or the blood on his hands.

He let the arrow fly, moving to draw another. Fury reached out and put a hand on Clint’s arm, stopping him. It took every fiber of will in his body not to lunge at the man on instinct alone.

“Let go,” he demanded, voice low and deadly. But Fury didn’t scare easily.

“Not going to happen.”

Clint made a show of rolling his eyes as he yanked his wrist out of Fury’s grip. He didn’t move to draw another arrow.

“What do you want?”

“Shouldn't there be a sir in there somewhere?” Fury demanded, folding both arms across his chest. Clint huffed a very immature sigh, meeting Fury’s gaze unflinchingly.

“What do you want, _sir_ ,” he snapped, full sarcasm behind his voice. He had thrown sarcasm around like it was free since day one, but he had never thrown it directly at Fury. He couldn’t help it. He was exhausted and tired and he just wanted a break.

He knew he didn’t deserve one. He could never deserve one.

“To remind you the range is closed. Return to your sleeping quarters,” Fury said, obviously throwing out what he had really come in here to say. He turned to leave, then stopped. He half turned, eye on Clint. “Stop by the infirmary on the way. Get some sleep and stop by my office at 0600 hours for your new assignment.”

Then he was gone as quickly as he had come.

* * *

Nick had managed to grab nearly two solid hours of sleep before he was awake and in his office again. He had been troubled after his accidental encounter with Barton last night, and hadn’t been able to shake the feeling he’d gotten in the pit of his stomach.

In the moment, he had half a mind to tear Barton a new one for his insubordination, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it. He had been angry and exhausted, but there was something deep buried behind his eyes.

Guilt.

Whatever it was that had kept Barton from sleeping in his bunk, and made him fire his bow until his arms were bleeding from the abuse, Nick was willing to bet that guilt had something to do with it.

He had been watching Barton from a distance over the past five months, making sure he was staying in line. He had been pleased with his progress. Despite his bad attitude and his tendency to get in fights, he was good at what he did. All of the rumors had proven to be true and Barton was able to carry his own weight and keep to himself for the most part. There had been few concerns, like he was not sleeping in his assigned bunkroom, he would always eat alone, and he had a tendency to lash out at anyone who gave him half a reason. Then there was the darkness Nick had seen in him last night.

But despite everything. He was here. He was _trying._

Nick hadn’t expected him to be perfect. Hell, he had expected him to be an utter failure. Yet, here he was, five months in and ready to be assigned to a permanent position.

If Phil had been on base, Fury would have admitted defeat. He had been right all along, and Nick just hadn't wanted to see it. Barton hadn’t failed. There was still room for it down the line, but he had made it this far.

But Phil wasn’t on base. Nick had been sending him on dead end missions for the past five months as ‘punishment’ for his denial. Now that Barton had passed, Nick would have to lift his restrictions. 

He was finally convinced that with the right push, Barton could be everything they were looking for and more.

The knock at his door let Nick know that Barton was here like he had asked of him. He glanced down at his watch, scowling. 0600 hours, on the dot. This kid really liked pushing his limits. Nick had no problem making the kid wait either. He left Barton out in the hall for six minutes before he raised his voice.

“Enter.”

* * *

Clint took his time opening the door after the call was given for him to enter. If Fury was going to make him wait, he would return the favor. He was all about reciprocity. Once he decided enough time had passed, he pushed into Fury’s office.

“Barton,” the Director greeted.

“Fury,” Clint returned in the same tone. Fury shot him a glare and he added a half hearted, very sarcastic, “ _Sir_.” 

There was no outward irritation on Fury’s face, but Clint could sense it. The corner of his mouth twitched in a phantom smirk at the small twinge of pride he felt. It had been fun to figure out all the different ways to get under people’s skin here. It was one of the only things keeping Clint sane right about now.

Fury dropped a file down on his desk with a silencing _thud_. Clint glanced at the front page, reading his name and the words ‘covert operations’. He lifted a brow.

“Your permanent assignment, if you accept,” Fury said. When Clint didn’t immediately move, Fury gestured to the file.

Clint stepped forward, grabbing it off his desk. He flipped it open to the first page, only absorbing the words at the top. ‘Clint Barton. Covert Operations: Distance Assassin’. The rest was in depth descriptions of his job and his new training manuals. He would skim through them later.

“Distance assassin,” he read, closing the file and looking up at Fury. 

“It seemed fitting.”

Clint deadpanned. He couldn’t argue that. He didn’t speak, silently urging Fury to continue. After a brief silence, he did.

“Normally, at this point and agent is placed with their unit for the foreseeable future-”

“Normally?” Clint interrupted, sidestepping the glare Fury shot at him.

“Seeing as you’re the only distance assassin we have on base, you will be placed in a unit of your own.” Clint scoffed. He looked at Fury like he must be joking, but there was no humor behind his eyes. This whole agency, and he was the only one who could kill from a distance? Almost as if he was reading his mind, Fury continued. “You will continue to train with the general population for now, but since you have been assigned to covert operations, you will also be given a handler to take over your more specialized training.”

“A handler?” Clint echoed. He didn’t like the sound of that.

“There is already a long list of applicants.” Clint rolled his eyes. Didn’t that make him feel so special.

He didn’t argue. He’d shoulder it just like he had everything else SHIELD had thrown at him the past five months. He would deal.

“I assume you accept?”

Clint nodded. When it came down to it, there really wasn’t a question. He had never been a quitter, but Clint couldn’t quit if he wanted to. He had nowhere else to go.

“Then consider your criminal record wiped clean.”

Clint blinked. He hadn’t expected _that_. Two years of law breaking and murdering just gone with the blink of an eye.

_"Yes. But an assassin with a purpose. A story behind every name and a good reason to kill. I assume that's more than you get now?"_

_He didn’t need to answer. Clint didn’t ask questions he didn't want answers to. He didn't need a reminder that he was a bad person killing good people. He didn't care. He couldn't care._

_But he did. Deep down, it had always dug at his soul. Clint had never wanted to turn into a monster._

_"I can't," he said suddenly. "I'm too far gone."_

_He wasn't looking at his face, but something told him that Coulson was smiling. "No one is too far gone."_

Clint blinked away the memory of Phil Coulson’s words from five months ago. He had promised Clint a better life if he just tried. He’d had his doubts about SHIELD and his ability to commit to something greater, yet here he was. A free man working towards _something_. Whether or not that something would make Clint better or not, he didn’t have high hopes.

But he was here. He was trying.

Nick Fury pulled a badge from somewhere and laid it on the desk in front of Clint. He picked it up and stared down at his own face followed by the words ‘Agent Clint Barton. Level 1’.

“Welcome to SHIELD, Agent Barton.”

* * *

_Next Time:_

_“You made a mistake bringing that bastard in, Coulson. I hope you’re ready to pay for it.”_

_Phil stared after him, brows knitted tightly together as Hansen headed in the direction of the infirmary. He took three steps forward and slammed his hand against the elevator button. What the hell had happened?_

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anybody else get chills at that last line? I know I do. I love the relationship between Nick and Clint and hoped to highlight that in this chapter. The next two are a dozy, so I hope y'all are ready for it.
> 
> Until next time
> 
> xo

**Author's Note:**

> There we go! First chapter done. It's already a bumpy road, but the beginning always is. I know Clint wasn't his normal self here, and he won't get there for a while, but this is about his growth! This story is already complete, so I will be posting the next chapter tomorrow.
> 
> I welcome and adore constructive criticism so leave a comment below! Thanks, I'll see you tomorrow.
> 
> xo


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